


Come Together, Right Now (Over Me)

by halfabreath



Series: Bittle Birkholtz Brousins [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12857274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: Eric and Adam's first Thanksgiving as cousins doesn't go well, until it does.Bitty's first Thanksgiving in the Haus doesn't go well, until it does.





	Come Together, Right Now (Over Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally from the prompt "I'm gonna punch a pumpkin!" submitted by Ivecarvedawoodenheart on Tumblr.

**NOVEMBER 24, 2004**

“But Mama –” Eric protests, socked feet trying and failing to find traction on the hardwood floors as Suzanne pushes him down the hallway. “I don’t want to sit with him!” He says, brutal honesty winning the day over forced hospitality.  At eight years old he’s not tall or strong enough to resist her but he leans back anyway, reaching out in an attempt to catch the crown molding with his fingertips to use as a grip.

“Dicky,” Mama scolds, hands firm but gentle on his shoulders. “You’re gonna sit with your cousin and you’re gonna be civil.” She comes to a stop just before the threshold to the kitchen, where the dreaded kid’s table is waiting for him. Mama turns him around and kneels, reaching out to straighten Eric’s bow tie. “I know y’all don’t get along but Dicky, you have to be a good host. He’s family and he’s new here.” Eric frowns, but she turns him and again and pushes him through the door before he can protest.

The kitchen, only recently vacated by his aunts and grandparents, seems strangely empty. The smells of the day have mingled together in an appetizing menagerie of poultry, sugar, and spices, but even the grumbling in Eric’s stomach isn’t incentive enough to take the only open seat.

“Be a good host,” he mumbles under his breath. “Be a good host.” Eric takes a fortifying breath and walks across the kitchen to take a seat next to his new cousin. There are only four chairs at the table, two of which are occupied by his Uncle Roy’s twin daughters. They’re only six but they’re well behaved and still tired from their nap, sitting quietly as they eat their dinner. They’re even chewing with their mouths closed, which is more than Adam can do, apparently.

Adam doesn’t speak when he settles in, cheeks bulging with food as he chews. Both his elbows are planted on the table and his long legs are splayed beneath the table, his knee encroaching on Eric’s space. Eric presses his legs together and starts spooning food onto his plate, arranging each dish carefully in a neat circle. He glances at Adam’s plate, wincing when he sees everything piled up in the middle of the plate in an unsightly mound of conflicting textures. Eric turns his attention back to his neat plate and carefully ladles gravy into the divot he’d carved out of his mashed potatoes. He pours in just enough so it flows out one side, spilling directly onto the turkey. He glances back at Adam’s plate, noticing that his mashed potatoes are naked.  _Be a good host._

“Would you like gravy, Adam?” Eric asks, holding out the chipped gravy boat he insists on using. It’s Mama’s old one and she always tries to throw it away, saying it’s too cracked to be used by guests, but Eric loves the intricate, if faded, design painted along the sides. Adam glances over at him, briefly, before turning his attention back to his plate with a firm shake of his head. Eric deflates and sets it down.

In movies - not that there are many Thanksgiving movies - but in movies or TV shows or commercials Eric’s seen the kid’s table is a rowdy affair. Not so at the Bittle-Birkholtz Thanksgiving - Coach and Mama have two siblings each but only Uncle Roy and Aunt Judy have kids so they didn’t even have to adjust the four chairs that usually sit around the kitchen table. The kitchen is quiet as the cousins eat, only the soft scraping of silverware against the ceramic plates disrupting the silence. Eric works his way around his plate, mixing flavors and textures appropriately. Beside him, Adam shovels food into his mouth, mixing up everything on his plate until the food is mashed up together in a disgusting gray lump. They only look up from their food when footsteps echo down the hallway from the dining room, their gaze trained on the entrance as Adam’s father appears. He almost fills the door frame; he’s the tallest one in the family by far.

“Hey, Eric, Hannah, Alexandra.” He greets warmly, a smile peeking out from his thick blonde beard. Eric gives him a little wave, which he returns. “Adam, I have to head to the airport to make my flight but your stepmom will give you a ride home in a few hours, okay?” Uncle Jacob’s voice is soft, gentle in a way Coach’s rarely is. Adam just nods and looks back down at his food, dragging his fork through his mashed potatoes. When Eric looks back Uncle Jacob is frowning but the expression quickly smooths over when he sees that Eric is watching. He waves again and disappears. Adam’s up in a flash, the chair squeaking sharply as he pushes it back suddenly. His long limbs flail as he runs across the small kitchen, loud footsteps coming to a stop just outside the door.

“Dad,” Adam says, voice easily carrying through the kitchen. “Can you drop me off at home before you go? Please?” He asks, desperation undercutting every word. Even so, Eric glares at the part of the wall he knows Adam is standing behind. How  _rude_  and  _selfish_  and  _inconsiderate_  after everyone worked so hard making the food he’d barely touched.

“Adam, no –” Uncle Jacob says immediately. Good. At least Uncle Jacob has manners, even if he hadn’t passed them on to his son.

Adam’s not deterred, though. “Please, Dad.” He whines, and Eric huffs in annoyance. Doesn’t he know everyone in the kitchen can hear him? Their girls aren’t paying attention but Eric certainly is.

Eric’s gaze drops to the shadows the father and son cast down the hall, just barely able to make out the movement of Jacob shaking his head. “No way. It’s bad enough I have to go to work.” He points out, and Eric agrees. At least he has to go fly a plane; it’s one of the better excuses Eric can think of to get out of a social engagement.

“Dad, I just want to go.” Adam says quietly. He sounds more restrained, like he’s trying to keep himself calm.

Jacob huffs out a soft laugh. “Why, so you can watch  _Friends_  re-runs? I don’t think so.” It sounds like he’s about to scold his son, and Eric knows it’s not polite to eavesdrop but it would be satisfying to hear his rude cousin called out on his poor behavior, so he straightens up in his chair and focuses on listening to the conversation happing outside the room.

Instead of an admonishment, he hears a soft sob. “I don’t – I don’t know anyone here.” Adam says, voice thick with tears, and suddenly, Eric doesn’t think this is very funny anymore. “I don’t fit in and no one likes me and they like, whisper when they think I can’t hear and ask me weird stuff and I just really, really want to go home.”

“Home to the house, or home to Buffalo?” Jacob’s gentle tone is back, sincere with worry, and Eric considers getting up to give them privacy but he can’t risk them hearing him move – then they’ll know he’s been eavesdropping for sure and Mama will be so disappointed in him. He hasn’t been a good host at all.

“I don’t know, maybe? Just somewhere that isn’t here.” Adam says, the words broken up by sniffs and sharp breaths. Eric looks around the kitchen, unable to imagine not wanting to be in his favorite place in the whole world. He wonders, absently, where  Adam’s favorite place is and if it’s even in Georgia at all.

There’s a rusting sound that Eric thinks might be hugging, and when he glances down the two shadows have merged into one giant one. “Adam,” Uncle Jacob says quietly, sounding almost as sad as Adam is. It’s strange; Eric didn’t think dads were supposed to get upset like that.

“Please.” Adam’s voice is muffled but Eric can just barely make out the word. He looks back down at his plate, ashamed that he’s been listening this whole time.

They’re quiet for a long moment until there’s more rusting and the shadows split into two separate forms again. “Son, I know this is hard. You’re in a new place with new people but they’re all family and they might not know what to say or what to do but they care about you. Besides, how do you think Judy would feel if you left?“ Uncle Jacob reasons.

There’s a pause and a short sniff before Adam responds. “Sad, maybe.” Adam mumbles, speaking softer than Eric’s ever heard him.

“Sad,  _definitely_.” Uncle Jacob corrects. “She loves you so much, Adam. And I know you love her, too. This is the kind of stuff we do for people we love. Okay?” Eric shifts in his seat, wanting to give them privacy but two afraid of making noise to actually move.

Adam sniffs again and when he speaks his voice is steady. “Okay. For Judy.” He says. Eric relaxes, relieved he’s calmed down. He shoves a forkful of food into his mouth; he should have been eating this whole time. Hopefully Adam doesn’t notice when he’s come back and realize what he’s done.

“That’s my guy. I have to go, but I love you so, so much, kiddo.” Eric can hear Uncle Jacob’s smile in his voice. It’s weird to hear a dad admit it so readily. Mama says it often, but it’s a once a year admission from Coach.

“Love you too, Dad.” Adam says easily. Footsteps echo back down the hall. Eric’s not sure how long Adam stays in the hallway but when his cousin walks back in his eyes are dry and only a little red-rimmed. He picks up his fork but doesn’t eat.

“Hey,” Eric says suddenly. Adam looks over with flat eyes and a frown already on his lips. “I made a pie today, all by myself. Do you want to see?” He’s already jumping out of his chair but he just manages to catch Adam’s unconvincing shrug and nod combo. He carefully picks it up from the counter, the old tin still warm beneath his hands as he carries it over to the table. It’s slightly less perfect than he remembers it being when he’d pulled it out of the oven hours ago. The crust isn’t uniform in color, texture, or pattern and he can see precisely where little air bubbles had formed in the pumpkin filling, but it still smells amazing when he ducks his head to sniff it. Adam leans in after, still congested, but he gives Eric a little smile anyway.

“It looks really good.” He says slowly, like he has to convince himself to say the words at all. Maybe he does, and maybe that’s okay. Eric’s realizing he doesn’t know nearly as much about his cousin as he thought he did.

“Do you want to eat it?” Eric asks, and Adam nods before he even finishes he sentence. Adam searches around for new plates for all four of the cousins while Eric slices out four unequal but triangular slices. His hand wobbles as he transfers the slices to the plates but he doesn’t drop any of the pieces. Adam distributes them while he grabs the whipped cream, and they pass the container around until everyone’s ready to eat.

The girls eat quietly but Adam hums a second after his first bite, eyebrows raising in surprise. The bottom crust isn’t as crunchy as Mama’s pies and Eric thinks there’s maybe a little too much cinnamon, but even as the pie’s list of faults grows the other three people at the table keep on eating.

“You made this by yourself?” Adam asks halfway through his slice. He sounds impressed, and he actually turns to face Eric when he asks the question instead of staring down at his food.

Eric nods proudly. “Mama didn’t help me at all! She usually does but she was so busy today that I made it from scratch.” He knows it’s not polite to brag but Adam doesn’t seem off put. He actually pauses before his next bite, looking down at the piece on his fork thoughtfully.

“Cool.” Adam says, and takes another huge bite. He chews and swallows quickly. “It’s really good. You should make more.”

“More pumpkin pies?” He asks. Bitty hadn’t considered that. They’re only in season for one day of the year. Then again, Mama bakes almost every day, and he always likes helping her, so maybe he could do that, too.

“Any pie.” Adam says with a shrug, picking up the remaining crust with his fingers. Eric doesn’t think he’s ever seen any kind of food disappear that quickly before. It’s encouraging to see how Adam doesn’t seem to care about any of the flaws Eric has tallied up in his head. They’re actually getting along, too, so maybe he should start baking more. For the peace.

“Thanks,” he says, turning his attention back to his own slice. The flaws don’t seem to stand out as much anymore now that Adam’s reaching for another slice. The grownups pour into the kitchen soon after with empty plates and serving platters. Aunt Judy dances through the crowd until she reaches Adam’s side, immediately pulling him close. He goes easily, shoulders relaxing when she combs her fingers through his short hair.

“I’m sorry that took so long, sugar. I just need to get my stuff and then we can go home; your dad said you were tired.” She’s looking down at Adam in concern, brows knitting together the same way Mama’s do when she’s worried.

Adam glances down at the plate, at Eric, and then back up to his stepmother. “You don’t have to rush. I can stay longer.” He says easily, shrugging one shoulder casually. Eric looks over at him in surprise, but luckily neither Adam nor Judy see him.

“You sure?” Aunt Judy asks, brushing her knuckles over Adam’s cheek. Mama did the same thing when Eric had a fever a few months ago. Adam smiles and it looks genuine; Eric hopes it is.

“Yeah.” Adam says easily. He looks over at Eric and offers him a little smile. Eric returns it and picks up the pie plate, holding it out to the two of them. Aunt Judy and Mama both get slices but Adam eats most of it, accepting every slice Eric hands him.

**TEN YEARS LATER.**

“Yo, Bits! Bit-tay!” Holster’s booming voice carries through the Haus, growing louder as he thunders down the stairs from the attic. He’s yelling so loudly it almost dwarfs the sound of his feet thumping on the creaky floorboards. “B-Train! B-Titty! Itty Bit - ” He swings into the kitchen, face falling when he sees the chaos in the kitchen. Bitty’s kneeling on the linoleum floor, tears in his eyes and flour smeared over his cheek as he picks up the pieces of a ceramic pie plate. The entire contents of a bag of flour is spread out over the kitchen table, forming little white mountains and valleys. There are pumpkin guts smeared over the cabinets and a beautifully dressed but still completely raw turkey on the counter.

Adam’s not stupid enough to stomp over to Bitty and risk cutting his feet and legs on the many shards scattered over the kitchen floor, but he does spring into action. He slips on a pair of shoes and tiptoes through the mess until he can kneel in front of Bitty, who’s sniffing quietly as the gathers the pieces of the pie plate in his hands.

“Hey, Bits.” Holster says quietly, placing a careful hand on Bitty’s shoulder. His cousin looks up at him with wide, wet eyes, and Holster has to hold back every instinct he has to pull Bitty in for a crushing hug - his cousin is still holding ceramic shards, after all, and Holster doesn’t want either of them to get impaled. He leans back and just barely manages to grab onto the trashcan with his fingertips, dragging it over so Bitty can dump the shards into the trash. The moment his hands are free he buries his face in Holster’s shoulder, clinging to him with a strength that most people would find surprising.

Holster’s not most people, though, and he never underestimates his brousin. He wraps his arms around Bitty’s shoulders, rubbing up and down his back soothingly. “So, uh,” Holster begins, but before he can continue Bitty’s speaking a mile a minute, the words spoken against the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

The first burst comes out in a confusing jumble of muffled syllables Holster can’t make out, but when Bitty turns his head to take in a shaking gasp of air the words become clear. “And I didn’t put the blender lid on so the pie filling went everywhere and I was trying to clean it but then I dropped my pie pan and it’s one of the ones your mom lent me but when I was cleaning I forgot to put the turkey in and now Hausgiving is ruined and everyone will be mad and it’s my first Thanksgiving in the Haus and I just want them all to like the food!” Bitty’s voice gets higher and more frantic with each word, but Holster just holds him tightly until he’s finished speaking.

“First of all, everyone already likes the food.” Holster says calmly, knowing that when Bitty panics about people liking his food it’s rarely about the food itself. “They’ll like it because you made it! And because their only other option is cafeteria turkey and like, Bits. That’s not a high bar. That’s maybe the lowest of bars. It doesn’t have to be the best turkey in Massachusetts because these assholes wouldn’t appreciate it if it was.” Even with their history, Holster knows he’s guilty of this as well - just last week he’d dumped Sriracha on the fancy French scrambled eggs Bitty made, but in his defense, how was he supposed to know that Gordon Ramsey’s recipe was difficult to make? All eggs look the same! Holster shakes his head to clear his mind; he’s getting way off track. “Besides, Judy won’t be mad that the pie plate’s broken. Bro, you have no idea how much shit I’ve broken over the years. She’s totally used to it by now.”

Bitty sniffs against his chest and even though the trembling in his shoulders is ceasing Holster knows he has to step up his game. He glances around the kitchen, steady gaze traveling over the series of catastrophes that befell his cousin.

“Hey, tell me all the food that’s giving you trouble.” Holster says in a moment of inspiration. His top priority now is getting Bitty cheered up - Bitty’s freakishly productive in the kitchen under most circumstances, but sadness isn’t one of them.

Bitty finally looks up, swiping the back of his hand under his eye. “Why?” He asks, and Holster’s relieved to have his focus. His lips are still turned down in a sad little frown, but at least now he looks more intrigued than devastated.

“I’m gonna beat it up.” Holster says simply, like it’s a normal thing to do. Bitty’s mouth drops open in surprise.

“What?” He asks, doubting if he’s heard correctly. He sits back on his heels and scrubs away the last of his tears with the back of his hand, finally fixating on something besides the mess he’s in.

Holster nods seriously. “Bitty, I’m gonna kick the ass of each and every vegetable, mineral, or vitamin that’s caused you trouble today.” He says, clapping a heavy hand on Bitty’s shoulder. It’s comforting, because Holster, for all his loudness and snark, is inherently comforting as well, and Bitty can’t help but smile.

“What, you’re going to punch a pumpkin, or something?” He asks, grinning up at his stupid, brilliant, idiotic, hilarious cousin.

Holster’s eyes light up and he stands, assuming a fighting stance. It might be threatening if Bitty didn’t know his only reference was undoubtably  _Mortal Combat II_. “I’m gonna punch a pumpkin, Bits, and you can’t stop me. I’ll drop kick that motherfucker right into the sky.” Holster’s getting into it now, waving his hands dramatically as his words grow more impassioned. He’s about to go full Cosmo Kramer, Bitty can tell, so he stands up and bats Holster’s hands out of the air.

“Please don’t murder my pie, Holster.” Bitty says, unable to keep from laughing even as he speaks.

Holster rolls his eyes. “Ugh, fine. But that pumpkin’s on thin fucking ice.” He points at the pumpkin rind and the orange mess that’s sprayed over the cabinets and wall, admonishing the vegetable forcefully. Bitty’s laughing when Holster’s phone chimes, and he pulls it out of his pocket to glance at the screen. “Hey, Ransom’s about to get coffee from Annie’s. You should go with him.” Holster says, and it’s clear from his tone that it’s not a suggestion, but Bitty just shakes his head.

“But I have so much to do! I can’t just leave! There’s the mess and the pie and the turkey and, and, there’s so much to do!” He protests, looking around at the mess that’s surrounding them. Something hot claws at the back of his throat as pressure begins to build behind his eyes again, but Holster steps in before he can start crying again.

Holster takes a step towards him, careful not to step on anything sharp. He settles both his big hands on Bitty’s shoulders. “But you can take a break. You’ll be gone fifteen minutes, tops, and when you get back I’ll have everything cleaned up so you can start fresh.” He says, using the soft tone Bitty rarely hears him use with anyone else besides his mothers or Ransom. He squeezes gently, a comforting pressure. “I’m pulling rank, Bitty. Get out of here.” He pushes Bitty gently towards the door, giving him plenty of time to step around the ceramic on the ground.

“Thank you, Adam.” Bitty says once he’s clear of the mess. His jacket is draped over one of the kitchen chairs and he can hear Ransom making his way downstairs as he shrugs it on his shoulders. Holster waves him off.

“No worries, brousin. This is the kind of shit we do for people we love.” Holster smiles and Ransom appears at the bottom of the steps before Bitty can reply. He looks into the kitchen, perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in concern, but Holster just shakes his head once, a quick little motion, and Ransom immediately nods in acceptance. Bitty’s had his fair share of silent conversations with Holster but even he has to admit that they’re on a whole other freaky level.  "Now go get caffeinated and make sure Ransom only gets one extra shot of espresso. Oh, and Bits -“ Holster pauses just before Bitty opens the door.  "If I see you two do that fucking PSL handshake, I’m going to burn your turkey.” Holster threatens. Bitty laughs as he walks outside, Ransom right on his heels. Holster glances around the kitchen and gets to work, only stopping to make a quick call as he sweeps up the pie plate.

“Hey, Jude! Judy! Juju beans!” He greets, putting the call on loudspeaker before setting his phone on the counter. “What’s up? So, hypothetically, if I had to cook a turkey as quickly as possible, how would you, in your infinite wisdom, recommend doing that?”


End file.
